The warder leaned back against the table and breathed deeply, pulling the rage back within him. As he did, he realized his left arm barked at him with pain.
“Are you all right?” the legionnaire said from the doorway.
“I believe I will live,” Dech replied as the weariness that always followed the rage came over him.
“That was like no fight I have ever witnessed.” Stepping inside and seeing Dech’s silver knife on the floor, she picked it up. As she neared the warder, she gestured at his shield, two fist-sized holes in it, one above and one below the padded cushion that crossed the back of it. “What happens if a body has a specter do that to them?” Clara asked.
“It depends on what is displaced, but it’s never pretty.”
She shuddered at the thought and passed the silver knife to Dech, then looked at the powdered remnants on the floor. “That thing faded away. Is it gone?”
“At least for now. Considering the damage, I would guess it left this plane, but you might have a priest trained to deal with phantasms look the place over. There are those that will pay for such residue. It’s supposed to hold ectoplasmic properties.”
“I’m not going to touch it. Let someone else profit. Is it safe to open the road to traffic?”
Dech nodded.
“Then I will let them know.”
“I’ll be along shortly,” he said as he loosened the ties that held his leather gloves in place. He preferred the gloves and their small steel plates on the backs to what most knights used, mufflers—mail gloves or mittens with leather palms that hung from the arm openings on most hauberks. He pulled his hands free.
He secured his gloves behind the belt that encircled his waist and then slid the mail sleeve on his left arm up to look at the injury the specter’s crushing grasp had caused. He saw a growing bruise already forming and knew it would require the attentions of a mage if he wished a rapid recovery. Damage caused by specters was always slow to heal naturally. Dech slid the sleeve back into place and worked his hand. It was painful, but his arm and hand were functional enough.
He stood and replaced sword and knife into scabbard and sheath respectively, then walked from the building.
. . .
Having already covered half a day’s travel from his intended course, Dech looked to his map and saw the town of Carpen was closest for his purposes: seeking a mage healer for his arm and checking in with an order patrol base.
He set out knowing he would need to spend a night in the field, but it was nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times in his life.
The warder was back on the road just after dawn. An hour’s travel brought him to the intersection with the Roanard Way, a road often used by merchant trains and a ripe area for the practitioners of banditry to work their trade.
. . .
Chapter 7
The friar carefully packed his large leather satchels, a donation given to him years ago that had served him extraordinarily well. Durable, roomy, and painless to carry with their wide and contoured slings, he considered them a blessing from the Creator. Books took up much of the space inside one of them, a few clothes the rest. The other carried food and other necessities for the traveling life.
He’d camped well away from the road, far enough his fire from the previous evening could not be seen from those that might travel the roads at night. The Roanard Way had become rife with bandits the last few years with increased merchant traffic using the road drawing the brigands in and mendicant friars were every bit as likely to be robbed as a merchant train. This was why he waited until full light before setting out.
A noise reached his ears coming from deeper in the forest. He stopped his work and listened. Soon a similar sound emanated from the same direction. The sound was muted, likely an animal he thought, and if so, it was not small. He quickly resumed his task and hoped he could depart before the animal learned of his presence.
Another sound drew his attention, a distant clang of metal and then a louder sound from the creature, closer now he was sure. He looked up and caught a flash of movement. A moment later, he saw her.
A dark-haired woman raced through the trees, nimbly clearing the tangles of roots that crisscrossed the forest floor, despite favoring her left leg.
Wearing only the high boots favored by rangers and a glinting necklace around her neck, she was armed with a stout branch of some dusky-wooded species. Her sudden appearance came as a shock to the mendicant. He swiftly stuffed the remaining items into his bag.
The woman saw the friar, her eyes widening in fear and aggression at the sight of a man in her path in the middle of the forest, but even so, she slowed to a stop a short distance away, her chest heaving from her exertions.
“You might consider heading that way, monk,” she said with a point in the direction of her travel.
“Friar. And you might consider wearing a bit more clothing,” the man replied good-naturedly.
“There was no time for that.”
“There still isn’t,” the friar said with a look of alarm and a gesture past the woman. “Trouble’s coming early today and I believe I will follow your suggestion.” He stood and threw the straps over his head. “Shall we?”
Just visible through the trees, a band of armed men closed rapidly.
. . .
Dech heard the sound of breaking branches first, then the footfalls of at least two people running through the leaf litter on the floor of the woods to his left. It sounded as if they were close and coming directly at him. He drew his war sword from its scabbard on his saddle, slid his shield around, and slipped his left arm into the enarmes on the back.
Two figures burst from the trees and skidded to a halt at the sight of an armored man on horseback brandishing a sword.
The pair Dech saw contrasted with one another in almost every way. A burly mendicant in a long and thick robe carrying a pair of large leather bags slung over his shoulders and a leanly muscular woman armed with an ersatz staff and clothed in nothing but high boots. More footfalls emanated from the trees.
The woman looked at the warder in shock. “Dech Crouse?” she said.
“Dissy,” he said in the same surprised tone. “Is that trouble I hear closing?” he said with a point at the forest.
“It is,” she replied. “And not long coming.”
Dech pulled the light crossbow from the back of his saddle and asked, “How many?”
“Six or eight or so. Didn’t have time to count.”
He offered her the crossbow.
“A crossbow? Not me, Dech,” she said adamantly.
“I am an able enough arbalester,” the friar volunteered.
Without uttering a word, he tossed the weapon to the man as he wheeled Ridan and loosed Otto’s lead rope.
The pursuing men crashed from the tree line as a jagged rank, stunned to find a sword-wielding knight awaiting them. Their surprise didn’t last as the two men nearest Dech raised their weapons and attacked.
Dech directed Ridan forward with his knees, one of the men backpedaling to avoid a trampling by the grey beast. The other thrust at Ridan with a dark-bladed dagger, but a swift sweep of Dech’s sword cleared the way for a reverse stroke that separated the man’s head from the rest of him.
Dech heard the sound of the arbalest releasing a bolt and a cry of pain to his left, a savage grunt from the woman called Dissy and soon after came the crack of wood on hard bone.
Ridan kicked, a sign Dech knew meant someone approached from behind. A glance showed a man reeling and grasping his ribs. Ignoring him for now, the warder moved at the backpedalling man who grimaced in fear and retreated into the woods.
A pair of dagger-armed men closed on the friar as he struggled to reload the crossbow. Dech spurred his horse and charged, leaning forward in the stirrups. The nearest man turned his head just in time to see a bloodied blade arcing toward his face, the impulse to duck failed to pass from mind to body before Dech’s stroke bisected his head. A quick turn and a hard
kick tumbled the other dagger wielder who nimbly regained his feet and snarled at the knight. He slashed the air wildly as Dech closed only to grimace in pain and fall with a bolt protruding from high in his back.
As the friar reloaded, Dech turned his attention to Dissy and found the woman fending off thrusts her opponent made with a short sword. He closed and bellowed a challenge, startling the man who backed away to face the new threat, never seeing the dark staff of wood closing on the back of his skull. Dissy’s strike toppled the man face first onto the ground.
The woman poked one end of her staff into the dirt and leaned against it, breathing hard and crossing her left leg behind the other. With her free hand, she pulled her dark hair behind a long graceful ear.
“Been awhile, Dech,” she said with a smile.
“An elf?” the friar said as he stopped next to Ridan. He held Otto’s lead rope in one hand. “Awfully tall for such.”
Dissy bent an ear forward, showing the lack of a high pointed shape. “Not that it means much, but half-elf,” she replied acidly. “The other half is human, if it interests you. A tarsaenn-aelf in Old Tongue, an abomination in the eyes of many human and elvan bigots.”
“You’ll hear not a bigoted word from me. The Creator made us all, lady,” the friar said. “He also intended us to wear clothing, especially when fighting off… whatever these ruffians were. Lovely as you may be, I’m sure you’re just as comely clothed.”
“My state of dress is not by choice, holy man.”
Dech dismounted and dug into a saddlebag on Otto’s packsaddle. He pulled out a white cloth bundle and tossed it to Dissy.
“Nice to see you,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I really didn’t think I’d see quite so much of you if we crossed paths again.”
She loosed the bundle and found it was an unadorned men’s blouse. “It wasn’t planned, I assure you,” she said as she pulled the garment over her head and found the bottom hem came nearly to the top of her boots. “Does the sight of a fit and healthy woman offend the sensibilities of friars and contrition knights?” she said as she lifted a pendant and dropped in inside the neckline of the blouse.
“I didn’t say that, did I?” Dech replied as he dug further into the saddlebag. “Give back my shirt then and let everyone see how healthy and fit you are.”
“No need for that,” the friar said. “We must consider the impropriety some might see should you continue such a display. Temptation can lead many a soul astray and I should think you’d tempt.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Dissy said dryly.
Dech tossed her a leather belt. “I suppose there is quite a story about how you came to Roanard Way with little but a pair of boots, a branch, and a friar in tow?”
“There certainly is, but I’ll wager it’s a feeble tale in comparison to how a knight-commander in King Harold’s household ends up a contrition knight. I heard you were dead.”
“Not quite.”
“For that I am glad. Even more so we met up again when we did,” she said pointing at the dead and wounded men that littered the area.
Dech looked over the field and nodded. “I need to see to them.”
“You do not intend to dispatch them?” the friar asked.
“Not unless they give me reason, though most of them seem dispatched already.”
Dech made his way to each man that remained starting with the one Dissy had lain out. He was alive, but unconscious with no sign he might be coming to anytime soon.
Those remaining were obviously dead as he mentioned. Following tracks into the tree line it was clear the man Ridan had kicked had fled into the forest as had another Dissy had injured. The friar’s claim of skill with the crossbow proved true as both men he’d shot were dead. Cleaning the bolts with leaf litter after recovering them, he placed them in the leather holder on the weapon’s stock.
He dragged the dead to the roadside and arranged them neatly. Dech intended to lash the remaining bandit to Otto, but that proved unnecessary when a King’s Legion patrol passed by and took the man into custody after hearing Dech’s report.
As the patrol moved on, Dech noticed Dissy was limping and asked her about it.
“I’ll be fine,” was her reply.
“You limp on a healthy leg? You won’t heal if you walk on it. You’ll ride my horse. We won’t make Carpen today. If you’re still limping when we get there, we’ll find a healer or mage for you.”
“What makes you think I’m going with you?”
“Do you have a pressing engagement elsewhere?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” she said. She drew a deep breath and then snorted. “Getting there may be problematic now. All I own are my boots.”
Dech nodded. “We’ll see what we can do about that in Carpen tomorrow. Now, let’s see what I can do for your leg. My magic is weak, but I have a simple spell that might help.”
Dissy rolled her eyes. “Sir Dech the gallant,” she said as she unbuckled the upper part of her left boot. “It’s the knee.”
Dech knelt and grasped her leg with both hands. He released her several seconds later. “Not spectacular, but maybe that will help.”
“It does,” Dissy said with surprise. “Since when do you know magic?”
He tapped the emblem on his chest.
“Sir Dech,” the friar said. “A warder. I’ve heard the name mentioned more than once and in more than a few places. I’ve a memory for such things. It’s a fine trait for a chronicler.”
Dech stood and looked at the man with irritation. “People talk.”
“That they do. They say you are a veracious man, that you are as inflexible as you are skilled.”
“They say many things.”
“So is it true or not?”
“It is. They do say many things.”
The friar smiled. “Ah, an inflexible and skilled knight with a sense of humor and cryptic tendencies. How fortunate I am to have you as a traveling companion.”
“You were planning on traveling with us? You can make your own way if you wish.”
“Now, now, let’s not be hasty. You give pause to brigands and highwaymen. I in turn have food and drink to ease our respites… assuming we take some along the road. You do not object to such things? Please tell me your oaths do not forbid rest or edible food.”
“They do not.”
“A relief.” He sighed. “I was concerned considering where the conversation was going.”
“Then let’s get moving.”
“We have established you are Dech and she is called Dissy. I am Brother Theobald, a friar of the Order of Servants of the Creator. Theo if you wish.”
Dissy climbed aboard Ridan and the trio was soon on their way.
Dissy’s appearance was a puzzlement to Dech. Another past acquaintance that resurfaced. Like the others, she was a figure from his past before his entry into the order. A teen when last they met, she seemed much the same to him, more mature in form and manner of course, but still quite recognizable. The irascibility, boldness, and skill he remembered her possessing was still quite obvious.
Whether any of the recurrences meant anything was still not clear and Dech doubted it would be anytime soon. He decided to seek Dealan’s counsel the next time he was near the abbey.
. . .
The trio stopped well before dark in order to find a secure campsite. Showing his skill at such a task, Theo soon located a suitable place. “Useful when one travels alone and unarmed,” he said.
Once the site was cleared and the horses taken care of, they rested.
“So, you know one another?” Friar Theobald asked as he unbuckled the straps on one of his bags. “There must be a story in how a wild and unabashed woman and a contrition knight know one another.”
“We were neither when we met,” Dissy said. “I was a castaside and he a young knight seeking glory in tournaments.”
“A castaside?” Theo said. “Your parents abandoned you to the streets?”
�
��No. My mother abandoned me at an orphanage, which likely means my father abandoned my mother long before my birth. Hated by most of the children and staff, I left as soon as I was able. I had it better as a castaside than as a ward of bigots.”
“And the orphanage gave you the name Dissy?” Theo asked as he spread a cloth on the ground.
“I gave myself the name,” she said bitterly. “My mother gave me two things: birth and the name Disprize. I also go by Diz.”
Theo began pulling wrapped items from his bag and placing them neatly on the cloth. “And how did a tourney knight and a castaside become acquaintances?”
“He saved my life. Thrice now he’s done that,” she said with a glare at Dech. “Not to mention the many times he provided other forms of aid.”
Theo shook his head in confusion. “It upsets you he provided aid?”
Dissy turned her glare on the friar. “Not in the slightest. I owe him more than I can repay. That upsets me.”
“You owe me nothing,” Dech said. “I helped a child in peril. If able, any decent being would do as I did. As for today, was I to ride away from an old friend? Friends owe friends nothing.”
Dissy glared again as Theo began unwrapping the bundles starting with a small wheel of cheese. “Same old Dech, whether you be tourney knight, household knight, or order knight. Chivalry and codes. I’m glad to see there are some constants that favor me. We haven’t seen one another in a decade, yet we’re still friends? I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Dech replied. “You weren’t a kid last time we saw one another either. Young, yes, but you grew up quickly as I recall.”
Dissy snorted and shook her head, her expression softening. “Is the order why I haven’t heard anything of you for so long?”
Dech nodded. His eyes told Dissy the situation bothered him. She said nothing and responded with a nod of her own.
The two looked at the wide assortment of foods the friar had for the meal. Four kinds of sausage, a block of cured ham, four varieties of cheese, several types of vegetables, peaches, and three bottles of wine.
The Warder Page 10
